A door was knocked off its hinges.  But before the wounded man was placed upon it, Lebrun appeared at the door into Milligan’s.  He was never a very cheery fellow in appearance, and now he looked like a demoniac.  He went straight to Joe Rix and the skeleton form of the Pedlar.  He raised one finger as he looked at them.

“I’ve heard,” said Lebrun.  “Lord Nick likewise shall hear.”

Joe Rix changed color.  He bustled about, together with the Pedlar, and lent a hand in carrying the wounded man to the house of Lebrun, for Nelly Lebrun was to be the nurse of Landis.

In the meantime, Donnegan went up the hill with big George behind him.  Already he was a sinisterly marked man.  Working through the crowd near Lebrun’s gambling hall, a drunkard in the midst of a song stumbled against him.  But the sight of the man with whom he had collided, sobered him as swiftly as the lash of a whip across his face.  It was impossible for him, in that condition, to grow pale.  But he turned a vivid purple.

“Sorry, Mr. Donnegan.”

Donnegan, with a shrug of his shoulders, passed on.  The crowd split before him, for they had heard his name.  There were brave men, he knew, among them.  Men who would fight to the last drop of blood rather than be shamed, but they shrank from Donnegan without shame, as they would have shrunk from the coming of a rattler had their feet been bare.  So he went easily through the crowd with big George in his wake, walking proudly.

For George had stood to one side and watched Donnegan indomitably beat down the will of Jack Landis, and the sight would live in his mind forever.  Indeed, if Donnegan had bidden the sun to stand in the heavens, the big man would have looked for obedience.  That the forbearance of Donnegan should have been based on a desire to serve a girl certainly upset the mind of George, but it taught him an amazing thing—­that Donnegan was capable of affection.

The terrible Donnegan went on.  In his wake the crowd closed slowly, for many had paused to look after the little man.  Until they came to the outskirts of the town and climbed the hill toward the two shacks.  The one was, of course, dark.  But the shack in which Lou Macon lived burst with light.  Donnegan paused to consider this miracle.  He listened, and he heard voices—­the voice of a man, laughing loudly.  Thinking something was wrong, he hurried forward and called loudly.

What he saw when he was admitted made him speechless.  Colonel Macon, ensconced in his invalid chair, faced the door, and near him was Lou Macon.  Lou rose, half-frightened by the unexpected interruption, but the liquid laughter of the colonel set all to rights at once.

“Come in, Donnegan.  Come in, lad,” said the colonel.

“I heard a man’s voice,” Donnegan said half apologetically.  The sick color began to leave his face, and relief swept over it slowly.  “I thought something might be wrong.  I didn’t think of you.”  And looking down, as all men will in moments of relaxation from a strain, he did not see the eyes of Lou Macon grow softly luminous as they dwelt upon him.